


Sulking harder than Jeff Carter

by agirlnamedfia



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-06
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:09:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedfia/pseuds/agirlnamedfia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh my God, shut up Danny, you went to play for the <i>Habs</i>, you don’t know my pain.” </p><p>Or, Claude Giroux gets traded to the Penguins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sulking harder than Jeff Carter

**Author's Note:**

> Set about 8 years into the future. Please suspend your disbelief with regards to how many players are still with their current teams? I have attachment issues. 
> 
> Many thanks to Jess, who cheerleaded me after I said "I want fic where Claude gets traded to the Pens!" She's also to thank for the hilarious title, as her first response was "OMG YES he'd sulk harder than Jeff Carter!" Lots of thanks also to Em, who (in deference to my own superstitious ways) has read this despite not knowing anything about hockey and putting up with a lot of my flailing. Thank you, ladies!

Claude gets traded to the Penguins on a Tuesday at the start of the postseason. It’s not exactly the best day of his life.

*

“Are you fu—” He reigns himself in just in time. “I—Is this a joke?”

On the other end of the line, Hextall coughs. “No,” he says eventually. “It’s not.” His voice is even, which is the first sign he’s serious. Hextall is generally an easygoing guy, Claude isn’t used to hearing him sound so formal.

The second sign is the silence. Claude blinks repeatedly and tries to make sense of the conversation.

“I—Sorry,” he comes up with eventually. “I didn’t mean to….” He trails off, unsure how to finish the sentence. I didn’t mean to insult you? I didn’t mean to sound like I think you’re out of your fucking mind? I didn’t mean to swear?

Surreptitiously Claude pinches himself. Nope, not a nightmare. 

“I, uh. I mean. Obviously I’m a bit surprised,” he forces out, trying not to laugh hysterically. Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it. Halfway convinced he’s landed himself in an alternate reality seems more likely.

Hextall makes an understanding noise. “Of course, I completely understand,” he says. “The Flyers are very proud of all your years with us, Claude. We’re thankful for everything you’ve done for the team, hopefully you know that. It’s with a heavy heart that we see you leave.”

Claude bites down on a bitter sound. Heavy heart and a heavy fucking wallet, more like.

The truth is… The ugly truth is that Claude knew someone was going to get traded. The Flyers have been ambitious the last few seasons, trading heartily and signing big. Claude knows how the cap limit works. He’d been prepared to say goodbye to someone, but he’d thought it might be, God, who the fuck knows, Coots or Schenner or maybe even Simmer. He won’t in a million years admit it to anyone under pain of torture, death or loss of hockey, but he’d never expected it to be _him_.

The rest of the conversation is mostly nonsensical platitudes from Hextall’s side and agreeing noises from Claude’s side. Whatever, it’s not like there’s anything left to say and besides, Claude’s mind is still far too jumbled to come up with anything besides “what the fucking fuck?”, which Hextall probably wouldn’t appreciate. At this point, bad phone manners don’t really matter anymore anyway, Claude thinks semi-hysterically. What’s the worst they could do, trade him?

After he hangs up, he sits in his couch for at least five minutes, head in his hands and between his knees, trying not to hyperventilate. Traded, he thinks morosely, away from the place where he’d been sure he’d spend his entire career. And to _Pittsburgh_.

What the fucking _fuck_.

*

The first person he breaks the news to is Danny.

Okay, no, the first person he calls is his agent, who’s obviously already aware of the deal, and the first people he breaks the news to are his family. They take it with a dubious sort of enthusiasm, which is probably the best he’s going to be able to do. Claude hasn’t exactly hidden his dislike for the Penguins or Sidney Crosby in the last decade or so. The fact that he’s now an official member of their team is baffling on more levels than Claude is willing to think about.

But the first person outside of his family that he breaks the news to is Danny.

“This is going to be a disaster,” Claude says, words half-muffled by the hands that are currently covering most of his face.

“Stop freaking out,” Danny’s tinny voice sounds from the laptop speakers. “Seriously, stop it. Do you need an inhaler or something?”

Claude shoots him a look. “I don’t have asthma.”

“It sure sounds like you do.”

“Shut up,” he moans, dropping his forehead back on the desk. It’s nice and cool against his skin. Maybe he could just stay here. If he just stayed in Canada, he wouldn’t ever have to go to fucking Pittsburgh.

“You also wouldn’t be able to play hockey,” Danny points out.

“Seriously, shut _up_.”

When Claude looks up, Danny’s not saying anything. He’s just sitting there with a worried frown on his face, the kitchen of the Gatineau house visible behind him. Danny and him haven’t been close the way they were when Danny still played in Philly for a long time. They don’t live together anymore, they don’t take care of the boys together anymore, and hell, they haven’t slept together in years. But that doesn’t mean Danny isn’t still important to him and Claude suddenly misses him fiercely. 

“What am I going to do?”

Danny shrugs philosophically. “Play hockey. What else?”

“With _Crosby_.”

At that, Danny looks marginally amused. “Sidney’s not that terrible a person, you know, and there’s a reason he’s called the best in the world. You could do a lot worse.”

“Ugh,” Claude groans. “No I couldn’t. It’s _Crosby_. How could I do worse?” Then a thought dawns on him. “Oh God, Danny, what if they want me to play on his wing?”

If Claude didn’t know any better, he’d say Danny was biting back a smile. “I repeat, you could do a lot worse.” His face smoothes into sympathy. “Look, I know it sucks, having to leave Philly.”

Danny probably does, is the kicker. It’s been almost a decade but Claude still remembers Danny’s reaction to the buyout, the knee-jerk response of ‘but I don’t want to retire!’ that had been visible in every inch of his face, shining through every single mannerism.

“But it’ll be okay,” Danny continues reassuringly. “I survived and so will you.”

Claude almost feels better from the inherent reassurance in Danny’s voice alone. And then, “Oh my God, shut up Danny, you went to play for the _Habs_ , you don’t know my pain.”

By the time he finally manages to reassure Danny he’s not going to drown himself in the shower, it’s as good as nighttime and Claude hasn’t even thought about how to tell his team. He throws his phone in a drawer and heads to bed.

Maybe he’ll wake up in the right universe.

*

The trade is announced during the Draft. Claude isn’t watching it—“You know denial on this level is a bit worrying, right?” “Shut up, Danny.”—but he can tell the moment it happens. Approximately half a minute before his phone starts exploding with texts and calls and e-mails.

“I think it’s going to catch on fire,” Claude says doubtfully.

On the laptop screen Danny chuckles. “Are you sure you don't want to pick it up?”

Claude leans over. ALEXANDER OVECHKIN, the screen blares, over a ridiculous selfie of the two of them that Claude can’t even remember taking. “No,” he says decisively. “I’m good. Besides, I’ve already talked to everybody important.”

Danny raises an eyebrow. “Except for Sid.”

“Whatever, he’s the captain, I’m not going to call _him_.” The words leave an almost dirty taste in his mouth. Crosby is his captain now. Will be his captain. Ugh. 

“Claude.” There’s a disapproving tone in Danny’s voice. Claude knows it well enough, it’s the same tone Danny used to use when Caelan had spent the entire afternoon playing video games instead of doing his homework, or when Carson had left his gear all over the living room floor. 

He’s saved from replying petulantly (also similar to Caelan and Carson) when Cameron shoulder checks his way into the Skype window. “‘Sup, G.”

“Hey, Cam.” Claude can’t help but smile fondly at the youngest Brière. He loves Caelan and Carson dearly, but him and Cameron always had a special kind of bond going on. ‘Brotherhood of the youngest siblings’, Isabelle had called it on the few occasions she’d been in Philly to witness.

Cameron is grinning. “So. Penguins, huh?” He makes a mischievous face. “Black and gold is gonna look terrible with your hair.”

Claude takes back everything nice he’s ever thought about Cameron. On screen, Danny is shooing his loudly cackling son away, though he seems to be laughing himself, the traitor. “Maybe I should retire,” Claude says mournfully. “It’s not too late. You like retirement, right?”

Danny laughs outright. “Please, you’re not even halfway your thirties yet. And besides,” he shoots Claude a shrewd look, “you’re not ready to hang up your skates.”

“I could be,” Claude mutters darkly. 

Danny rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. “How did the guys take it?”

“Okay, I guess.” Claude smiles fondly. “I thought Schenner and Coots were going to cry, it was almost adorable.”

On screen, Danny is smiling too. “You did good work there, you know.” 

Claude sighs. “I know. It’s just. It’s Philly, you know?” 

Danny makes a sympathetic face. “Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

When Claude finally gets around to sorting through the numerous messages hours later, there’s identical texts from Carts and Richie that just say _sux bro :(_. Claude doesn’t text back to tell them to shove their four Cups with the Kings up their ass, but it’s a close thing.

*

Training camp is fucking bizarre. Claude takes two wrong turns on his way to CONSOL, not used to having to drive there himself and stubborn enough that he refuses to dig out the GPS, so he’s very nearly late and the locker room is almost full by the time he gets there.

There’s an obscure moment of silence the second after he walks in, before sound picks up louder than before. Claude doesn’t think they’re compensating or talking behind his back, but then again, this is the Penguins, so who the fuck knows.

Shut up, he tells himself, this is your team now. It’s been three months since the trade and he’s had the time to adjust. The thought shouldn’t still make him shudder the way it does.

He nods to the few players he’s friendly with, makes it a careful point to include Crosby _and_ Malkin to that. Those two come as a package and Claude’s not an idiot, despite what Coots might say. Him and Crosby have existed in a state of careful neutrality in the last few years, but Malkin is a whole different story. He’s as protective as a mama bear with a cub, and about the same size too. Claude doesn’t want to be a Penguin very much but he also doesn’t want to end up in the hospital with several broken limbs and a career-ending concussion, thanks.

They nod back, and the whole situation just makes Claude want to burst into tears or crazy laughter, he hasn’t quite decided yet. Claude Giroux on the Penguins, shit, it’s like some kind of cosmic fucking joke. Everything around him is black and white and vegas gold, while Claude is still turning his head, expecting to see orange. It reminds him of when Danny was bought out, actually, and he kept expecting to see him on the bench anyway. Except it’s _worse_.

At least fitness testing is more or less the same for every team. The Penguins are no less brutal about it than the Flyers, though Claude catches a look of surprised pleasure here and there as he goes through the reps. He tries not to preen. At least something good has come out of spending most of his postseason exercising his frustrations away.

The only good thing, Claude’s saving grace you might say, comes on the third day of camp, when Claude is in the same group as Malkin for a scrimmage and Coach puts him on Malkin’s wing.

It’s… It’s pretty fucking phenomenal actually. Granted, they’re still playing stiltedly, passes not connecting the way they should and reading each others movements wrong at times. But Claude’s been playing in the NHL for almost fifteen years now. He knows what the potential for amazing chemistry feels like.

Malkin knocks him on the helmet after the game, grinning widely. “Play good,” he says. “Maybe make good Penguin after all, eh?”

“Fuck off,” Claude replies, but he’s grinning too.

*

Claude hides Crosby’s peanut butter two games into the regular season.

Never. Again.

*

The thing about the Penguins is that they’re in the same division as Philly and Claude is just. He’s not ready to play against his old team and he’s comfortable enough with his feelings to admit it.

To Danny, at least.

“Claude, breathe. You’ll be fine.”

Claude’s not hysterical. He’s not. Getting close though. “I won’t, oh fuck, Danny, I’ll just. I’m going to pass to Coots out of sheer muscle memory!”

“You will not, Claude, give yourself some fucking credit, please. You did alright during training camp and the preseason, didn’t you?” Danny sounds so incredibly calm. It makes Claude want to hit him. It’s the future, they’ve passed 2020, surely a virtual punch is a thing that exists by now?

“There were no Flyers during preseason or training camp!” Claude’s definitely shouting now. “Why the fuck did the fucking third game of the season have to be in Philly?”

Danny sighs. “You have to calm down.” He shoots Claude a stern look. “Stop freaking yourself out.”

“I’m trying,” Claude says from where he’s pacing around his living room. In his apartment in Pittsburgh. That’s he’s still renting. In Pittsburgh. Claude makes a high-pitched noise and drops down on the chair. “Fuck. Getting traded fucking sucks. ”

“Look on the bright side,” Danny says eventually, “maybe if you accidentally pass to the Flyers you’ll get traded again and you won’t have to be a Penguin anymore?”

Claude can’t bring up the energy to do anything but glare at his laptop screen balefully.

The game, in the end, is almost anticlimactic in its normalcy. Claude would think it’s just any other game of the hundreds he’s played at Wells Fargo Center by now. Sure, he’s suiting up in the wrong locker room and yeah, he’s sitting on the wrong bench, but whatever, once he's in the zone none of that stuff is very clear anyway.

Of course, then Philly brings out a tribute video that almost brings Claude to tears, so that fucking sucks.

Coots and Schenner have skated over during, grinning at him widely. “Allergies?” Schenner asks innocently. 

Claude grabs him in a headlock. “Shut the fuck up, you fucker.” He grins at Coots, nodding at the C stitched on his jersey where the old A used to be. “Looks good on you, buddy.”

Coots flushes but looks pleased. “Thanks. Not the same without you, though.”

“Yeah,” Schenner pipes up from where Claude still has a loose arm wrapped around his head. “Who’s going to submit us to indescribable cruelty now? Coots is too soft for that.”

Claude makes sure to give him a noogie before letting him go. Behind Coots and Schenner the Penguins are staring at them none too subtly, though Claude can’t detect a lot of resentment. In fact, huh, is Letang grinning at him?

“Good,” Claude grins. “That’ll make it easier for us to kick your fucking ass.” The words still taste foreign coming out of his mouth, but, well. Live and learn, or some other kind of nonsense.

They do end up winning, though it’s a hard-fought battle. Claude hadn’t thought his old teammates would go easy on him, because that’s not what hockey is about, but still, it kind of sucks to be checked into the boards with the vicious precision he’d always relished before.

He gets to score, though, so. That part doesn’t suck too bad.

Probably the best part of the whole game, however, is Danny and his litter of screaming twentysomethings, all decked out head to toe in black and vegas gold with “GIROUX” proudly displayed on their backs.

 _Thanks_ , Claude texts Danny that night after a shower, a massage and a pretty decent team dinner. 

He doesn’t get a reply but in the morning there’s a _:)_ waiting on his phone.

*

Claude’s been in Pittsburgh about two months when he’s first forced to socialize. The Penguins have an off day so Claude slept in later than he’s used to, which is why, when his buzzer goes off at 9:30am, he’s still in his pyjamas, listlessly stirring his oatmeal while trying to figure out how to play a game Carson had put on his iPad last time he was in Philly. 

He’s still yawning when he picks up. “‘lo?”

There’s an unimpressed silence. “Giroux?”

Claude blinks. “Letang?”

There’s a rustle and then Fleury pipes up in sharp, staccato French. “Listen, can you just open the damn door, man. It snowed last night and I’m freezing my toes off out here, it’s uncivilized.”

Claude’s too surprised to bring up much of a protest, so all too soon, he’s got a living room full of French Canadians. 

He ignores Letang’s obvious once over. Whatever, it’s an off day and he was up late last night Skypeing Danny. He drops down on the couch. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but, uh. What are you doing here?” 

It only occurs to him after that sitting down when your guests are still standing around actually is pretty rude. Also he should probably have offered them a drink or something. 

Letang is still looking at him with that mildly disapproving glare, while Fleury pokes around his living room curiously. “We’ve come to save you from yourself,” Letang says.

Claude can’t stop a scoff from coming out, but he shuts his mouth when Fleury looks around his admittedly poorly decorated apartment. It’s not Claude’s fault he’s not an interior designer, is it? And besides, he’s not going to make that much of an effort, who knows how long he’s even going to stay here? 

“All you do is play hockey, Skype your boyfriend in Philly and mope around in your apartment,” Fleury points out. “Your hermit existence is setting a bad example for the rookies.”

“He’s not my boyfriend—,” Claude starts

“Fine, platonic life partner then, who cares.” 

“—and that’s not all I do!” It sort of is all he does. But Claude’s not going to mention that to these assholes.

Flower rolls his eyes. “Have you seen anything of Pittsburgh yet? Visited things? Seen places?”

Shit.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy moping,” Letang interjects. “So the trade wasn’t ideal, whatever. We all know you weren’t exactly pleased to come here, you made that pretty clear with the whole peanut butter stunt.” Claude flushes. “You need to get over it, Giroux.”

“Our point is,” Fleury shouts from the kitchen, “that we’re here to save you from making an even bigger asshole of yourself than you already have. Dude, do you have anything in here other than oatmeal and—,” a sniff, “—really fucking stale crackers?”

“So we’re taking you out,” Letang finishes.

They’re like a comedic duo of Quebecois French and unimpressed bullying, and worst of all is that Claude can’t think of any conceivable reason to say no, as his plan for the day had pretty much been to watch TV in his pyjamas. Shit, maybe he really does need to get out.

 _Being kidnapped by french canadians_ , he texts Danny surreptitiously while Letang and Fleury hustle him neatly out of his own home.

 _Good_ , Danny replies a few minutes later. _you were being a hermit_.

_Traitor._

*

The Penguins have a pretty good spread of talent across the board. There’s a few older guys on the team, heading into their final years, chief among them Malkin, Crosby, Letang and Fleury, but there’s also a good spread of steady younger talents, like Kapanen and Bennett and Smith.

And then there’s the rookies.

The thing is… It’s 100% not his fault, but the thing is, Claude is pretty sure that Danny’s propensity for taking in rookies has rubbed off on him. Because when he sees them scattered all over the ice, it’s all he can do not to shout tips, encouragement or chirps at them, depending on what works. He wants them to feel at home in a team Claude doesn’t feel at home in himself. He wants them to do better.

Fucking Danny, seriously.

The first time he drags Aubrey to the faceoff circle after practice, Crosby gives him a weird look. Claude ignores him, because fuck it, the kid clearly has some sort of inane fear of losing a faceoff that Claude is going to fix because he also has the makings of a fucking amazing center. Claude’s not going to let that go to waste just to avoid overstepping or some shit.

It doesn’t end there. He doesn’t know if Aubrey spread the word or if the rookies have some sort of mind meld thing going on, but less than a week later Gerstmann spends the entire team dinner picking his brain on the most dangerous current and past line combinations and when Skonieczny starts in the net for the first time, he asks Claude for pointers on how to anticipate shots during an odd-man rush.

The team seems to take it in stride, though Claude has to pretend not to notice more than a few confused looks. He’s sure he’s gotten away with it, until Crosby corners him in the massage room after a brutal loss from the Lightning. You’d think that at 32 Stamkos would have slowed down but ugh, Claudy thinks grumpily, rotating his shoulder, clearly not.

It’s not altogether a dumb plan, because Claude is on the table in Cody’s tender hands with no way of escaping the conversation. Crosby’s frowning when he walks in, which is not a good sign, and he takes a deep breath before he starts, which is an even worse sign. Claude’s only been with the Penguins for two and a half months, but it turns out Sidney Crosby is frighteningly easy to read once he turns his media face off.

“I wanted to talk to you about the rookies.”

Claude grunts. “What about them?”

“I noticed you’ve been working with them.” Crosby keeps his voice completely neutral. Claude would be impressed—honestly, he’s kind of impressed with how professional Crosby’s been since the beginning, not that he’d ever tell anyone, fuck off, stop laughing, Danny—except there’s one snag in Crosby’s plan. Claude may be trapped for now, but he’s also having the kinks massaged out of a seriously sore joint and that doesn’t exactly put him in the best of moods.

“What about it?”

Crosby’s face pinches. “It’s good,” he forces out. “They’re improving.”

Cody chooses that moment to dig his thumbs right into that spot where it hurts the most. Claude lets loose an ungodly stream of what he’s sure is a mix of English and French cursing. When he looks up, Crosby looks torn between impressed and scandalized.

Claude can’t help himself. “What,” he smirks. “Surprised? You still haven’t learned not to underestimate me by now, Crosby?”

Crosby rolls his eyes. “Fuck you,” he says, mostly unimpressed but threaded through with genuine annoyance. “Whatever.” And he turns on his heels and marches out of the room.

Two days later Claude accidentally overhears him complain to Coach about how hard it is to be professional when Claude won’t do the same thing.

“Seriously, what a whiner,” he rants the next time he talks to Danny.

Danny gives him an unimpressed look. “What the fuck, Claude.”

Claude throws his hands up in the air. “Oh come on, running to the coach? That’s some midget whiny bullshit, Danny.”

Danny isn’t swayed. “He was trying to pay you a compliment—”

“Yeah, in a whiny way!”

“—and you needled him. Also, that doesn’t even make sense,” Danny says, rolling his eyes. “He’s your _captain_ , Claude. How long are you going to keep this up?” His expression softens. “I thought they were growing on you?”

Claude sighs. “They are,” he says reluctantly. “Tanger and Flower are good guys, and some of the younger guys don’t even really care? And the rookies, I mean.” He grins. “Aubrey swiped the puck right from under Malkin’s nose the other day, you should have seen the look on his face.”

“And you’re playing great,” Danny adds helpfully.

Claude leers. “Been looking at my stats, have you?”

There’s a slight redness to Danny cheeks when he rolls his eyes yet again. “It’s kind of hard to miss, you know.”

Now it’s Claude’s turn to flush, because yeah. Him and Malkin and Smithy have been clicking so well in the last few games that it’s become something of a Thing in the press. Claude can’t deny he’s a little bit pleased to prove everyone who said him coming to the Penguins would be a disaster wrong (never mind that that included himself), but mostly he’s happy with the numbers he’s putting on the board. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles eventually.

Danny snorts. “So why are you still acting like Carson used to when I took his Wii away?”

“It’s just. Ugh, you know me and Crosby don’t get along.” He looks away at Danny’s raised eyebrow, but eventually, he can’t help but cave. Like Danny had known he would. Bastard. “It takes some getting used to, okay, I haven’t had a captain since, Christ, since I lived with you probably. It’s fucking weird and it’s Crosby to boot. I’m _trying_!”

“At least you haven’t gotten into any scraps yet, that’s something.”

“I’m shocked and appalled by your low opinion of me, Brière,” Claude deadpans. 

On screen, Danny smiles slightly. “Try harder,” he says firmly.

Claude bites his lip. Danny has always brought out the best in him. “I miss you,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. It’s not.... Him and Danny aren’t a thing. Not anymore anyway, but. Claude sighs. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”

There’s a pause. “Haddonfield isn’t that far, Claude,” Danny says eventually. “And you’re welcome here any time.”

“You’re the one with all the free time,” Claude snarks. “Why should I come see you?”

“I have a charity to run and a job these days, you know. And besides, you haven’t invited me.”

“Oh,” Claude blinks. “Uh. Come on, don’t look at me like that, asshole, I didn’t think I’d need to! Stop laughing!”

“Your face,” Danny says between giggles. “You make it so easy, Claude.”

“Shut up,” Claude grumps. “See if I invite you over now, you bastard.” Danny’s no longer giggling, but his smirk speaks volumes. “Shut up,” Claude reiterates nonsensically. “Tell me about the boys, how are they doing?”

Danny does, spending the next half hour telling Claude all about how Caelan is 100% in love with New York City, how Carson is tearing it up in the OHL and how Cameron is racking up points as well as A’s at UPenn.

It’s late by the time they finally hang up and Claude should really be in bed, but he double-checks the schedule anyway. The Penguins have four days off around Christmas and the flight from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia is only an hour.

 _Fuck it_ , Claude thinks, and sends Danny a copy of the e-ticket after he’s booked it. It’s as clear a gesture as he can think of.

*

The problem with playing on the Penguins is that, for lack of a better description, Claude is on the inside now. Pretty much his entire career, he’d been convinced Crosby was excessively whiny, adored to an almost ludicrous degree and yeah, okay, the guy was good at hockey, but did he have to be so damn flashy about it all the time?

Claude’s not the smartest guy but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out exactly how much of that is smoke and mirrors.

The thing about Crosby is that when his teammates say he works hard, what they really mean is that he works himself really fucking hard. He doesn’t stay late every practice but it happens regularly. Sometimes Malkin will stick around too, but more often than not, Crosby’s alone on the ice working on slapshots, speed skating or any number of drills. It’s kind of intimidating, actually. Claude’s never put that much hard work into anything, not even hockey.

With regards to the press, Claude had always assumed Crosby loved to do the neverending stream of interviews that always seemed to be everywhere. Now he’s kind of wondering if he’s actually as dim as Hartsy used to call him, because no sane person would want to do this many interviews. Hell, no _insane_ person would want to do this many interviews. The Pittsburgh beat reporters are pretty good about it, but during road trips things can get absolutely brutal. And that’s without counting all the non-game related promo Crosby gets dragged into.

And then there’s the hockey fans. They seem to delight in either adoring him to an uncomfortable level or ragging on him to an almost unbearable level. Nobody is ever ambivalent about Sidney Crosby and even Claude can tell that the attention sometimes freaks the guy the hell out. But he keeps taking the pictures and he keeps signing the autographs. And he keeps smiling throughout it all.

Claude is exhausted just from looking at him. 

“If that’s what being the face of hockey is like, he can keep it, to be honest,” Claude says over Christmas, sprawled out over Danny’s couch and carefully sipping a glass of wine.

There’s a peal of laughter from the kitchen and Danny appears in the doorway, drying his hands on a dishtowel. “Stop the presses,” he says drily, “Claude Giroux has had a change of heart.”

“Shut up,” Claude replies, half-heartedly trying to stop a smile. “It’s not as though I like the guy now.”

“Sure,” Danny says knowingly. “You sympathetically hate his guts.”

“Ugh, shut up, you’re the worst,” Claude groans. He puts his glass down to prevent any spilling and sits up. “But, maybe, I don’t know. I guess I can understand why they’re all so protective of him, you know?” 

The couch sinks when Danny drops down on it. Claude lists to the side unintentionally, resting his head on Danny’s shoulder. “Yeah?” Danny murmurs. “I told you he’s not so bad.”

“Hmmm. I guess you were right, old man.” Claude grins as he swings around to straddle Danny, his knees pushing down the couch cushions on either side of Danny’s thighs. “Let’s talk about something other than Sidney Crosby.”

Danny grins at him slowly. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like how the boys are at their mother’s for Christmas Day,” Claude murmurs, relishing the way Danny’s eyes darken. “Like how we haven’t done this in years and I, for one, think that’s far too long.”

Danny hands, which had been slowly climbing up Claude’s legs, pause. His expression is suddenly unsure. “Claude….” 

Claude smiles, trying not to let his nerves show. “Don’t be dumb,” he says softly, instinctively knowing what Danny is going to say. “Things aren’t the way they were before. And besides, you know you’re my forever girl.”

The snort of laughter that escapes Danny would be hilarious under any other circumstances, but right now it just kind of makes Claude’s chest constrict. They haven’t talked about this at all, though they’ve both been hinting at it for years. But they stopped sleeping together for a reason and even though that reason might not apply one hundred percent anymore, what with Danny being retired and the boys all out of the house, Claude can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s read the signs wrong and—

His mental ramble is cut off by the press of Danny’s lips against his. It’s probably the best thing that’s happened to him all year.

Claude grins when they finally separate, breathing heavily. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Danny answers huskily, and closes the distance between them again.

*

Claude surprises Crosby and the Penguins (and himself), and absolutely mystifies the rest of the NHL, during the third game of the new year, an away game against Boston.

The game is fucking ferocious, which isn’t a surprise. The Bruins-Penguins rivalry has rekindled to an unseen level in the last few months, mostly due to the Penguins unceremoniously booting Boston out of the Conference Semifinals last year in a sweep that included two shutouts. Claude isn’t generally opposed to rough play, though, quite the opposite in fact. At first, he dearly enjoys cutting loose and kicking ass with Malkin and Smithy, throwing his weight around as much as he can get away with. But the hits get dirtier and the play gets rougher. The chirping is merciless and Claude can feel himself getting riled up, despite his best efforts.

Then, with less than four minutes left in the second period, Lucic goes after Crosby. The Penguins are on the powerplay so it’s a rare occasion where Claude is on the ice with Crosby and Malkin. Claude’s down in their own end, having saucered a perfect pass up just seconds ago, so he sees the whole thing as if it’s happening in slow motion. Crosby gets the puck, Crosby takes off, Crosby turns around, Lucic hits him right in his blind side.

Crosby goes down like a ton of bricks, slamming shoulder-first into the boards with a blow that Claude can almost feel reverberating through his own body.

And Claude has just had it. He’s had it with the fucking Bruins and he’s had it with this fucking game and he’s definitely had it with the fucking linesmen. That hit couldn’t have been more blatantly illegal if Lucic had been carrying around a blinking neon sign but nobody is doing a damn fucking thing. Before he good and well realizes it, Claude’s raced up the ice and is slamming into Lucic at full speed, dropping the gloves as he goes.

The fight is over quickly enough. Claude gets pulled back by a linesman and Malkin, who’s grinning viciously at him. Claude grins back before he can stop himself, bumping his bloody fist against Malkin’s glove. Lucic is being helped up by his teammates, all of whom seem to be looking at him with an expression of extreme confusion, and the entire arena is booing so loudly, Claude thinks the glass might be vibrating.

He salutes them cheerfully as he makes his way off the ice.

It’s a major penalty too close to the end of the period, so Claude is already in the locker room when the team gets in, breathing hard and breaking into spontaneous applause and cheering when they see him. Claude flushes and tries to push the arm Malkin slings around his shoulder away.

“See,” Malkin says loudly, “Claude defend Sid, I'm tell you, make good Penguin!”

“Fuck off,” Claude grouses, but he’s grinning. “I still hate you.” There’s no bite in the words and it rouses a fresh round of laughter. Claude can’t bring himself to mind overly much.

Crosby comes to find him after Coach is done reaming out their asses and everybody is retaping and refocusing. He looks more awkward than Claude’s ever seen him, which is saying a lot.

“So, uh.” Crosby makes a face. “Thanks? I guess?”

Claude rolls his eyes. “Whatever, I didn’t do it for you. That hit was so illegal, blind old ladies in _Alaska_ would have noticed.”

Crosby is grinning though, which would usually get under Claude’s skin like nothing else, but right now, he can’t find any fault in it. He’s probably still riding the high of a good fight.

“Uhu,” Crosby says amusedly, and taps Claude on the helmet. “No more dumb penalties. We gotta show these assholes what we’re worth.”

This time, when Claude grins there’s a distinctly wicked edge to it. “Now that is a sentiment I can get behind.”

They end up winning the game 5-3.

*

When Claude lifts the Cup at the end of the season, his first thought is about getting to take it home to Danny and the boys. 

He still won’t admit it to anyone, but maybe getting traded to the Penguins wasn’t the _worst_ thing ever.


End file.
